The sun never sets

in the eyes of a child who sees the world
on his own level
horizon.

he leans on his side, relaxing with the roses
on a bank, so he can see through one
drowsy eye the quiet cottage
where a pot is starting to
boil on the stove, and his
mother hums with
Wagner on the
turntable.

a fly brushes into his floating free hand.
he nestles into the grass
and falls asleep to
Wagner, a soft
overture that
crescendos
into his
dream.

he wakes
to find the sky is dark.
he rushes to the windowsill
and realizes that dinner is cold.
he eats alone, blinking the sleep from his
eyes and listening to the music wane.